


Let The Right One In

by FoxCollector



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Like a punch or two, M/M, Mentioned Elena Gilbert, kind of, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 01:52:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11544960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxCollector/pseuds/FoxCollector
Summary: The first time Damon and Alaric sleep together, no one is sure why. It’s what Damon likes to call ‘hate-sex’ and Alaric likes to call ‘shut up.’





	Let The Right One In

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to preface this by saying that this is an older fic. I was recently doing a series re-watch and found this and figured I may as well post it. It's sort of supposed to function like a missing scene, but I don't think that matters so much.
> 
> This is also my first time posting on this site, and I kind of dig the set up. Comments are welcome, but please don't hurt me! If you don't like the pairing, hit that back button.
> 
> Read, enjoy, review!

Damon’s cheek would have been still been sore from Alaric punching him, if he were human. But he’s not, and he isn’t sore, and he also isn’t nearly drunk enough to have come home from the Grill but he does anyway, because it’s been a long day.

Damon sits with a glass of bourbon (another one, and how many has he had? The answer is still not enough) resting on his chest. He’s settled himself on the couch in front of the fire. He likes having a fireplace, a real one he can light and bask in front of, feeling the heat rolling over him in waves. He loves it. It helps him relax. And he needs to relax. Yes, Stefan is safe (wherever he is now), Elena is maybe happy, Alaric still hates him (to be expected, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t totally badass, Damon knows they were), Pearl owes him (well, she should at any rate; people don’t torture each other’s brothers and get away with it) and all is well in the world. Mostly.

Damon is still alone, and feeling like wallowing a little. So he does, all stretched out on the couch in front of the fireplace with almost-enough alcohol.

Maybe he's had a little more to drink than he'd thought, because it takes him a moment to realize he is not alone.

His first thought is Stefan. But Stefan usually comes and sits with him, or at the very least speaks to him. So, not Stefan. This person is silent. Definitely not Elena. He turns around, hoping it isn’t another tomb-vampire, because he is sick of dealing with them for the day. And it isn’t a tomb-vampire, and it isn’t Stefan or Elena or even Pearl. It’s Alaric.

“Oh, you,” Damon shrugs, takes another sip.

Alaric doesn’t say anything, he looks angry, and contemplative, and Damon can’t read minds but he thinks maybe Alaric is thinking very not-nice things about him.

“You shouldn’t break into people’s houses,” Damon says.

“You should lock your door,” Alaric tells him.

“Who would be stupid enough to break into a vampire’s house?” Damon says, his mouth pulling up into a half-hearted grin.

Alaric makes his way into the room, stands by the fire, close to Damon, not close to Damon. It’s the same place he’s stood once before, the same place he’s died before. And he has a stake in his hand, again. Just like before.

Damon almost groans, leans his head back against the couch. “Really?”

“Yeah,” is all Alaric says.

“Did you learn nothing from last time?” Damon asks.

Alaric shrugs. He’s angry. Needs to do something with himself.

Damon does not want to do this again, he knows how it will end, and it will definitely end his not-so-great-day on a bad note. But Alaric doesn’t move. Just stands there with his stake and his anger and his something else that Damon can’t quite place. But maybe Alaric can have a free-pass today, because he helped Damon (and actually saved him at one point, but Damon is willing to forget this) and he helped Stefan. So Damon won’t kill him, unless Alaric tries to kill him first. At least Damon knows he’ll come back.

Nothing happens.

“Are you actually going to try to kill me?” Damon asks, after a moment, because he is annoyed that nothing is happening.

“I don’t know,” says Alaric. _Maybe_ , he thinks, then _probably not_. Then _No_. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to. He does. It’s just, today hasn’t really been the best day, and Alaric is thinking that maybe ending it by dying isn’t such a great idea. And part of him says if he kills Damon then he’ll have nothing left, nothing to hate or drive him to do stupid things like enter a house full of vampires. But he doesn’t like to listen to that part of him. He’s also reasonably sure that if he kills Damon, Stefan will kill him. Probably permanently.

“I don’t think I’m drunk enough for this,” Damon mutters.

“Me neither,” Alaric admits.

“I’ve kind of had a bad day, can we just get this over with?” Damon says, and he sounds tired.

Alaric didn’t think vampires could get tired. It doesn’t really matter, he supposes.

There’s a moment where Alaric eyes the stake in his hand, is really contemplating using it. He eyes Damon, focuses on the spot on his chest where the stake should slide in.

Damon leans his head back against the couch, watches Alaric. He’s alert, Alaric wouldn’t get a foot closer to him, but he doesn’t actually make a move. Won’t, unless he has to.

Alaric sighs heavily and throws the stake at Damon. Tosses it, really. Damon snatches it out of the air, lightning-quick, holds it like he doesn’t understand how it got there.

“You know, I haven’t exactly had a great day either,” Alaric tells him.

Damon can tell, Alaric looks pissed-off and worn-out. Well boo for him.

“Are you done here?” Damon asks, he means to sound annoyed but thinks he sounds more tired.

“No,” Alaric says, hesitates. He wants to do _something_. He didn’t come all this way to just turn around. He was supposed to come and kill Damon. Or something. Maybe he drank more than he thought, because this seemed like a good idea half-an-hour ago. Now he feels a little stupid. Just standing there with his anger. He needs to do something.

Damon stands up, places his glass and the stake on the side coffee table. “Do something then.”

And Alaric wants to. He does. He balls his fists, furrows his brows, wants to hit Damon.

Damon watches him. He knows the kind of anger Alaric is feeling, at least, he thinks he does. He knows, at the very least, that Alaric needs to snap and get it out of his system. And Damon understands that Alaric needs to do this, but he doesn’t particularly care. He has things to do, like wallowing in self-pity or bothering Stefan, or sleeping. All of those sound like good ideas. But if Alaric wants to fight, then he supposes he also has things to get out of his own system.

“Yell at me,” Damon suggests. “Hit me. Try to kill me again. Fuck me. Do something.” He taunts him, because he wants Alaric to snap, would take a sick and guilty pleasure in it.

All of those sound like good ideas to Alaric right now. _Wait_ , he tells himself, _except the fucking._ He really just kind of wants to hurt Damon.

But he doesn’t do anything. And it is so annoying.

Damon shoves Alaric back a step. It’s not even much of a push, but Alaric hauls back and punches Damon across the jaw again and it’s Damon’s turn to stagger back a step.

And then the flood-gate is opened and Alaric grabs Damon by his shirt and throws him, as best as he can, towards the nearest wall. And Damon lets him. Because he can end this fight in a second, but he doesn’t want to yet. He’ll let Alaric think he has a chance, it’s more fun that way. Sometimes Damon thinks he has a masochistic streak. It would explain why he keeps falling in love with people he can’t have.

Damon punches Alaric in the jaw, the same way Alaric has punched him twice now, and Alaric has to catch himself. He will bruise there, the way Damon should have bruised there twice.

Alaric pushes Damon against the wall, and Damon lets him for a second before he shoves him, tosses him sideways towards the entry hall. And Alaric is back on him in a second, all fists and anger and hatred and something else Damon can’t quite place. He grabs Damon by the shirt again, shoves him up against the wall and hits hard.

So hard Damon actually really feels it, and he thinks maybe he’d bruise, and wishes maybe he could, because that was good, that really hurt.

They’re all the way by the entry way now, and Elena would be so disappointed in them if she were to walk in. But she doesn’t, and no one does, and for a moment they don’t move.

Alaric is breathing hard, and Damon is too, even though he doesn’t need to. Sometimes he just does, like he can’t stop himself.

They lock eyes, and Alaric hates those eyes. They’re pretty, probably the prettiest blue eyes he’s ever seen, and he hates them. Damon smirks like he knows what Alaric is thinking, and Alaric is reasonably sure he doesn’t, but just in case he stops thinking about Damon’s eyes.

And now they’ve stopped. Because now what is Alaric supposed to do? He’s hit Damon, it felt good. And now what? The stake is a little far away to be of use.

“Are you done now?” Damon asks.

And still neither of them move.

No, Alaric isn’t done, and could Damon just wait against the wall like that while he goes and gets the stake? That would be great.

Damon huffs in annoyance when Alaric doesn’t answer. He flips them around so he is the one pushing Alaric against the wall and he lets his full body weight press against him to pin him. And Alaric looks uncomfortable and unhappy and disgusted, and _good_ , Damon thinks, _serves him right_.

“I asked you: are you done?” Damon repeats, leaning in too close (god, he loves how uncomfortable this makes people). He eyes Alaric’s neck like he’s seriously considering it. But Alaric probably drinks vervain. And if he doesn’t, then he really should.

It takes Alaric a minute to realize that he’s kind of painfully hard, and it’s kind of embarrassing because he’s pissed off and hasn’t he had enough to drink that this shouldn’t even be happening? He knows Damon has noticed, they’re pressed closely together and Damon would be an idiot not to have noticed.

And Damon has noticed. His expression is intrigued and intriguing. Not disgusted like he should be because Alaric has a boner from trying to kill him. Although Alaric will admit that maybe the boner is also from the fact that there’s been sexual tension tightening between them for way too long. Alaric wonders if it’s because there’s some weird we-slept-with-the-same-woman-and-I-want-to-kill-you vibe.

Damon wonders if it’s because he absolutely thought Alaric was hitting on him at the dance when they met.

Or maybe they’re just attracted to each other. No reason it couldn’t be something normal. Even though neither of them is normal.

_Maybe the fucking wouldn’t be such a bad thing..._ Alaric thinks, and then reminds himself, that yes it would be a bad thing. This doesn’t stop him from forcing Damon against the wall opposite them and attacking his neck with his teeth. Like Alaric is the vampire and not Damon.

Damon lets out a surprised sound, one that’s surprisingly loud compared to the bluntness of their fighting and just surprising in and of itself. Damon doesn’t get surprised very easily, and he thinks he should have seen this coming, but he’d been reasonably sure the only wood he’d be getting would be a stake and the only thing being penetrated, his chest cavity. And damn, he’s so good with those crappy jokes, he should tell Alaric. But Alaric is busy sucking his neck like he’s actually managed to break the surface, reach the blood-flow just beneath. And he hasn’t, but it feels good and Damon doesn’t really want to stop him. And now Damon is hard against Alaric and it’s awkward and hot as fuck.

When Alaric finally stops, he watches the nasty bruise he’s left on Damon’s neck fade away in seconds flat (all that hard work, gone). He meets Damon’s eyes again, isn’t surprised to see them clouded a little by lust. Damon leans in a bit, his lips opening and Alaric knows Damon wants to kiss him. Well, too bad for him, because as much as Alaric might want to taste those lips, he’s not going to. Because Damon wants him to and he’s feeling petty and not like giving Damon what he wants. Alaric will take what he wants and Damon can deal with it. So Alaric leans in, so close to Damon’s lips and then slides sideways to mouth along Damon’s jaw and Damon lets out a kind of frustrated growl noise, and Alaric takes pleasure in that, grinds against Damon to try and make him make more noise. And it works, a little, because he thinks Damon was expecting that, so the noise is small. Doesn’t matter, Alaric knows he can make Damon be loud, embarrassingly so. Would serve him right.

Damon fists his hands in Alaric’s stupid jacket. If that’s how Alaric wants to play it then Damon can do that too. They can both just try and get what they want and see who wins. Damon is good at winning, he usually gets what he wants. He knows it’s only a matter of time before Alaric caves. Damon grinds back against Alaric as best as he can and Alaric moves back to his neck, making another bruise Damon wants to see. Sometimes he doesn’t like the whole healing thing.

Alaric slips a knee between Damon’s legs and bites his neck hard, breaking the skin a little and causing Damon to buck against his leg with a noise he cuts off in his throat on purpose (because if Alaric wants him to make noise, then that’s too bad for Alaric).

Damon’s hands are steady as he pulls at Alaric’s jacket and Alaric isn’t very cooperative because he’s trying to hold Damon’s arms against the wall and this isn’t really working for anyone because Damon would rather they were both naked, and sooner rather than later, and Alaric would rather Damon stop moving and let him do his own thing. Finally Alaric shrugs off his jacket and lets Damon fix a hand on the back of his head, moving him to his favorite spot on his neck. Damon moans softly and Alaric thinks maybe it isn’t so bad, letting Damon do a little of what he wants. Damon’s other hand is busy bruising Alaric’s shoulder, he knows there will be a bruise there, but right now he doesn’t care. He sets his own hands to work on the buttons of Damon’s shirt and it’s way too hard to undo all those buttons. Alaric wonders if it’s because he’s so turned on or drunk, but in the end it doesn’t matter because Damon gets his other hand in there and together they get every button open and Damon shrugs the shirt off as fast as he can, pressing up against Alaric as much as possible. Alaric takes the shirt and throws it as hard as he can towards the kitchen. Let Damon have fun finding it later. Damon makes an unhappy grunt at this but he doesn’t stop running his hands over Alaric’s shoulders possessively.

Now Alaric thinks he couldn’t stop if he wanted to. He runs his hands over Damon’s stupidly-perfect chest, stopping to torture his nipples and make Damon make undignified noises.

Damon pulls Alaric’s head up and wants to kiss him, but he doesn’t. He leans in towards Alaric’s neck instead, and Alaric stops him with a hand to his jaw.

“No biting,” Alaric says gruffly.

“But you bit me,” Damon pouts as best he can with one of Alaric’s hands still rolling one of his nipples.

Alaric stops then, leans away from Damon like he can actually just stop and leave it right there and leave Damon hot against the wall.

No one can leave Damon like that, he knows what he looks like, is pretty sure Alaric is bluffing. Alaric makes no move to touch him.

“Fine,” Damon concedes. “No biting. But then I get to do this.” And he leans in and presses his lips against Alaric’s as quick as he can.

It’s Alaric’s turn to make some small noise. Damon is a good kisser, and it’s obvious he knows it; Alaric can feel him smirking against his lips.

It’s more intimate than Alaric wants, this kissing. Alaric is trying to be rough, he doesn’t want Damon to enjoy it so much, so he bites Damon’s lips and Damon moans.

“No biting,” Damon tells him.

“Shut up,” Alaric says, running his hands down to Damon’s pants and palming him roughly.

Damon doesn’t shut up, but he doesn’t manage to say anything either, just moan a little.

Damon starts working at the buttons on Alaric’s shirt, his hands moving expertly (and maybe Alaric is a little jealous Damon is still so controlled, and maybe this renews his urge to take Damon apart) and Alaric opens Damon’s jeans, tugging at them and Damon is very distracted and more than happy to help get his pants off.

Alaric is actually kind of surprised that Damon is wearing underwear, he seems like the kind to go commando. Then again, maybe he usually does. Alaric wouldn’t know. The only things he knows about Damon are the things he’s been told and the things he’s learning with his hands. Alaric makes a point of chucking Damon’s socks towards the front door and his pants at the fireplace, half hoping they’ll catch fire.

Damon notices. “Hey! Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Alaric shrugs. He runs his hands roughly up and down Damon’s body and allows Damon to finish opening his shirt.

Alaric has a very hairy chest, and Damon kind of likes it, it’s so different from his own. He rubs at Alaric’s chest, first with his hands and then he pulls them as close together as he possibly can, grinding against Alaric’s leg and they’re not close enough, it’s not good enough. Damon pulls Alaric in for another kiss that Alaric doesn’t want and that Damon wants too much. He loves kissing, he can admit it. He undoes Alaric’s pants, trying not to seem too eager when he all but rips them off as fast as he possibly can. Alaric bites his shoulder and Damon grits his teeth to hold back a moan.

Not to be outdone (although Alaric smugly thinks that Damon is completely outdone, and almost _un_ done) Alaric tugs Damon’s boxer-briefs off. He stoops to grab them off of Damon’s ankles and unceremoniously flings them up the stairs.

“Really? Mature,” is all Damon gets out before Alaric wraps a hand around him and then Damon can’t speak anymore because it’s so hot, and so good, and god, why haven’t they done this before?

Alaric’s shirt is still hanging off his shoulders and it feels warm and unnecessary and he wants to take it off, but he doesn’t, because that would mean letting go of Damon and he is utterly fascinated by the face Damon is making. His eyes are tightly closed, and his cheeks look pink and his lips, god Alaric wants to kiss them, bite them, leave them red and raw and – Damon has opened his eyes and is watching Alaric closely. Alaric has no idea what Damon is thinking, but if he’s still thinking then Alaric is slacking off. He tightens his grip, twists a little and Damon bucks up and moans and it sounds delicious.

“Okay, stop,” Damon breathes. “Otherwise I’m gonna –”

Alaric stops. Backs off. Takes a second to actually look at Damon. He should not be doing this. They hate each other. Damon _killed_ him. But he’s saved Damon’s life. It’s a weird plus-one-minus-one exchange and Alaric doesn’t really want to think about that because Damon is actually beautiful and that little voice in his head telling him to stop can shut the hell up because Alaric isn’t done yet.

“Like what you see?” Damon gives him a cocky grin and it’s so terribly cliché and expected.

Alaric snorts, knocks Damon’s legs apart, moves to stand between them and presses in for a kiss, and Damon is so damn smug against him. Now Damon is tugging at his terrible grey underwear (if Alaric had had any idea that he’d be doing this then he would have worn any other pair of underwear) and Alaric lets him pull them down enough to free his aching cock so they’re both blissfully (mostly) naked. Well, that and the shirt still hanging there on Alaric’s shoulders, but it’s not in anyone’s way right now, so no one cares about it.

And now Damon wraps his hand around Alaric’s length, feels how different it is from his own, before Alaric bats his hand away. And why? That’s what Damon wants to know. He just wants to get on with this, but Alaric is too busy torturing him. So instead Damon attaches himself to Alaric’s lips, one hand on the back of his head (because damn it Alaric won’t let him just kiss the way he wants) and the other hand on Alaric’s back underneath the shirt. And Alaric is trying with one hand to bruise Damon’s hip (why can’t he just _bruise_ , it defeats the purpose of Alaric’s violence) his other hand is working to get around both of their erections, and it isn’t going very well. Damon relinquishes his hold on Alaric’s head to give Alaric a hand and together they actually manage to start moving, jerking them both off at once.

It’s good and Alaric pulls away from Damon’s mouth to breathe in sharply. It’s not easy to keep standing upright anymore and he leans against Damon as much as he can.

Damon relishes the movements, tipping his head back, he keeps his eyes open but they’re heavily lidded now and the press of Alaric’s weight against him makes his breath (as unnecessary as it is) hitch. Damon slides a leg up and around Alaric’s waist, pulling him in closer, as close as he can get. Alaric grabs at Damon’s leg, groping at him and running his hand up around the curve of Damon’s ass (and Damon shudders) and back down to get a better grip, try to pull Damon’s leg so he’s opened wider and Alaric can move closer.

Alaric leans forward and Damon leans in too so their foreheads meet and their leaning against each other heavily, one wrong move and they both might topple to the floor. _Not that the floor is a bad idea_ , Alaric thinks, and he tightens his hand around them, trying to do what he likes, hard and slow, while Damon goes a little faster, adding a little twist that makes them both groan.

Alaric ends up resting his head on Damon’s shoulder and Damon leans his head against the wall again. From his vantage point, Alaric watches their hands, watches how Damon likes to add twists when he can and Alaric copies him, tightening his grip even more, and it’s not exactly what he likes, but it’s damn good and it makes Damon’s mouth drop open with an embarrassingly loud moan.

Alaric’s head snaps up to watch Damon’s face closely. He digs his fingers into Damon’s thigh with one hand, and regrets the fact that it won’t stay bruised, not like Alaric’s shoulder, which is starting to feel a little crushed in Damon’s vice grip. With his other hand, Alaric sweeps his thumb across both of their heads, and he shudders, and so does Damon. Damon copies him at the same time Alaric gives them another little twist and that’s when it’s too much for Damon. He gives a full-body shudder, his leg tightening around Alaric, and groans something that might be a curse or Alaric’s name (Alaric doesn’t know, couldn’t tell over the sound of blood pumping in his ears, for all he knows Damon said ‘Katherine’ or ‘Elena’) but it’s Damon’s face that does it. Alaric stares, because Damon is not supposed to look like that. He’s not beautiful, he’s a monster (with light eyes and flushed cheeks and bitten lips). It’s the look on Damon’s face when he comes that sends Alaric over the edge.

And then they’re left standing in the hallway, covered in each other’s come, right in front of the door.

Alaric really hopes Stefan isn’t about to walk through the door, hopes even more that Elena doesn’t, because it’s one thing to walk in when they’re hitting each other, another thing entirely to walk in when Damon is naked and Alaric is mostly naked and it’s entirely obvious what they’ve been doing.

Alaric clears his throat, releases his holds on Damon, who lets his leg drop slowly, dragging over Alaric’s. Damon looks a little blissed out (Alaric guesses his expression compliments Damon’s), but he rebounds fairly quickly, his signature smile slipping into place.

They stand there a moment longer than necessary. Alaric looks as though he feels something should be said. Damon thinks nothing needs to be said. What would they say anyway? ‘Hey, I know we just got off together, but I still hate you, and this doesn’t change anything’? They don’t need to say that, it’s implied as far as Damon’s concerned. Everyone hates Damon. Whatever.

“Um,” Alaric says. Clears his throat.

Damon lets him hang for a moment, keeping his smile in place.

“You know,” Alaric tries again. He places a hand on the wall by Damon’s head.

“Yeah, I know,” Damon says after a moment, shrugs like Alaric is an idiot.

“Good,” Alaric says, awkwardly tucking himself back in his horrid grey underwear, pulls his shirt back into place, places his arm back by Damon’s head (he doesn’t know why he does this).

Damon stays still for a moment longer, then slips out under Alaric’s arm. He makes his way towards the door, grabbing his socks, because at least he can see where they are.

Alaric watches him go, completely unashamed, comfortable in his nudity, chest still splattered with their come. Alaric thinks Damon likes to be naked, and then he thinks that that should not be so hot, but it is, and now he can’t not watch Damon gather his clothes from all the fun places Alaric threw them. Thank god for petty revenge.

Damon stops by the fireplace, bends over to get his jeans (thank god they’re not burnt, because otherwise Alaric would be paying for that in some petty way for the next 10 years, or Damon could just kill him again, whatever).

Damon bends over deliberately slowly, showing off as much of himself as he possibly can. Alaric’s eyebrows creep towards his hairline and he distracts himself by grabbing his own discarded pants and pulling them on hastily. _Yeah_ , he thinks, _Damon likes being naked._

“Where’d you throw my shirt?” Damon asks.

“Uh...kitchen?” Alaric guesses. He watches Damon walk over and, sure enough his shirt is there, he stoops again to grab it. Alaric hates Damon more than ever right now.

Damon comes back over to Alaric, grabs Alaric’s jacket off the floor and places it in his hands, then continues up the first few steps to where Alaric threw his underwear.

Alaric busies himself with doing up his buttons and pulling his jacket on.

By the time Damon finds his underwear and slips it back on, Alaric has fetched his stake from the coffee table and drained the last of the bourbon in the glass. He pauses in the doorway.

“Call me?” Damon asks, flirty smile on in full force.

_Not likely_ , Alaric wants to say. _Absolutely_ , he thinks. Instead he just scoffs and goes out the door, leaves Damon standing mostly naked on the stairs.

Alaric doesn’t stop until he is sitting in his vehicle. Then he hits the steering wheel, like it’s to blame. Because he shouldn’t have just left. He shouldn’t have fucked Damon (they didn’t even really fuck, just kind of jerked each other off or something Alaric doesn’t even know). He shouldn’t have kissed Damon. Shouldn’t have punched him again. Shouldn’t have brought a stake to try and kill him. Shouldn’t have gone in the first place. Shouldn’t have slacked off and gotten drunk. Shouldn’t have left the bar. Shouldn’t have hit Damon the first time. Shouldn’t even have gone to the Grill. Really shouldn’t even have come to this god-forsaken town.

But he did. He did it all. Every last thing. And now he gets to deal with that. Well, that’s just great. Alaric hits his head against the steering wheel, sits there feeling bruises settle into his shoulders. It’s a good ache.

Damon stands on the staircase for too long. After what might have been a moment or another century, he doesn’t know, he pulls his clothes back into place on automatic. He’s still wearing their come and he really doesn’t care, except he does because it’s kind of gross and he really just needs a shower. He moves up the stairs slower than he usually would. This wasn’t exactly the way he’d imagined the night going. He was supposed to drink a lot, check in on Stefan and crawl into bed. Instead he’s not nearly drunk enough, has been smacked around and jerked off and he can still feel the marks that healed far too fast, etched indelibly on his mind like they’ve made their way onto his bones. It doesn’t even make sense. But he can still feel them, even though they aren’t there anymore and he wishes they still were.

When he reaches the landing to the library, he pauses. There’s something on the floor in the doorway, the open doorway and the light is on. Stefan’s home. Great.

Damon should be embarrassed, he’s pretty sure Stefan heard everything, how could he not? But Damon isn’t embarrassed, doesn’t really care. He makes his way into the room, has every intention of joking about his sexual escapades. But he doesn’t, because what’s lying in the doorway, and on the table and all over the room is empty blood bags. And what’s curled up at the other end of the room is Stefan, his mouth greedily latched onto another one. He looks up at Damon with an expression that tells him that no matter what Damon’s just done, Stefan is a hell of a lot worse off. Because Stefan doesn’t do human blood. He just doesn’t. And Damon doesn’t do History teachers. But here they are and Stefan is covered in blood and Damon is covered in come. Damon can’t think of anything to say. What is there to say? ‘Your history teacher got me off but that’s not important because you look kind of insane over there’? No, the only thing Damon can think of to say, and he still doesn’t say it, is:

_Oh._

 


End file.
